


Pyjamas

by atheldamn



Series: Romance, and the Museums of the World [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blankets, Comfort, Couch Cuddles, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic, bad dirty jokes, just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:24:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3581043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheldamn/pseuds/atheldamn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire gets a cold. Combeferre tries to help.</p><p>(working title of 'grantaire is a sick silly')</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pyjamas

**Author's Note:**

> This was written ages ago when two entirely separate friends were ill/sad and I finally edited it.
> 
> I promise more museums soon. The others in the series do not need to be read to understand this one, but they follow a timeline and they fit together.

Grantaire dropped his bag to the ground, slammed the door behind himself, and sighed. Work had dragged on for even longer than usual, like a special type of torture reserved only for when he felt like utter shit.

His throat ached, pressure had been building through the whole afternoon in his nose and behind his eyes, everything that touched his skin hurt, and his joints protested as though he’d ran a marathon, not stood behind a counter. With difficulty, he made his way to the sofa, and let himself drop.

“Grantaire?” He started at the voice, thinking himself alone. Opening his eyes, he lifted his head with a grunt, and looked up into the face of Combeferre, stood over him clutching a steaming mug. His head cocked to the side and a slight furrow appeared between his eyes.

“Ngh,” was the only reply he could muster, and it must have explained the situation clearly enough. Combeferre set the mug on the floor and dropped to crouch beside the sofa. Grantaire lay his head back on the cushion as a cool hand pressed to his forehead. Part of him thought it comforting, suddenly realising he felt hot, but it also sent a shiver running through him, and he shied away. “How’d you get in here?”

“Grantaire, you’re ill,”” Combeferre stated, retracting his hand and frowning at him as he pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Why were you still at work?”

“S’fine. M’fine, don’t fuss,” he mumbled, face pressed into the cushion. He felt rotten, honestly, not fine at all, but he wasn’t used to having anyone asking after his health. When he was ill, whatever illness it may be, he prefered to deal with it himself, rather than having someone running around after him for hours on end. It just served to irritate him. “Why’re you here?”

“I told you. Courfeyrac wanted the place to himself for the night. He’s seeing someone, I believe, some guy called Pontmercy. He wiggled his eyebrows enough for me to garner why he’d want the place to himself.” Grantaire did vaguely remember him mentioning something, and offering him the spare key to let himself in. That didn’t mean he particularly felt up to company.

“Don’t really want company,” he said, hooking his arm around his face so as to block out the light. He heard Combeferre tut quietly, then move away. Where he was going didn’t concern him, though. What did was how uncomfortable his work trousers were, and how much he wanted to be in something made of cotton or fleece. There were clean pyjama bottoms in his drawer. He’d put them there only yesterday. He reckoned he’d sell his first born for them; they’d be so comfortable.

A rustle brought his attention back to the room, and he lifted his head, frowning, to see Combeferre drawing the curtains.

“I can leave if you’d like me to,” he said, turning back to Grantaire, and there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice that Grantaire wasn’t a fan of. And there was a hot cup of tea on the table. At least if Combeferre was around, he wouldn’t have to get off the sofa much for the rest of the evening. He seemed concerned enough to do things for him.

“Don’t go,” he sighed, dropping back to the sofa, but it was too fast and his head spun sickeningly. He groaned pitifully. “Just don’t fuss. Be quiet.”

Combeferre came and sat on the other end of the sofa, smiling softly, and he began to unlace Grantaire’s shoes. “Alright, I’ll be quiet. Do you want me to get anything for you now?” he asked, dropping the first shoe to the floor. Grantaire hadn’t realised how heavy they were, and already he felt more comfortable without it. He stayed quiet until the second was gone, then he pushed his feet against Combeferre’s leg.

“Need to get changed,” said Grantaire, looking down at him. With the curtains drawn, he was able to look around without squinting so much, the room dim and, though sparsely furnished, cosy. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, beginning to move his legs from Combeferre’s lap, but a hand on his chest stopped him.

“I’ll go. Bottom drawer?” Grantaire didn’t put up too much of a fuss, just grunted an affirmative.

Combeferre returned moments later with the pyjamas Grantaire had been dreaming of, as well as an old, slightly too large, long sleeved top, the softest one he owned. Whether Combeferre already knew it was the softest, or whether he had gone through all the clothes he had clean looking for the softest, he didn’t know, but he was eternally grateful. Combeferre put them on the sofa beside him and hovered, slightly awkwardly, as Grantaire pushed himself to sitting.

“Do you want my help?” he offered, handing him the top.

“I’ve got a cold, I’m not useless,” he grumbled in response, pulling the hem of his t-shirt up and trying to lift it over his head. The cold air stung his skin, and he couldn’t pull his work top down fast enough. “Fuck.”

“Come on, R, let me help. It’ll be quicker. Lift your arms,” Combeferre pleaded, crouching in front of him and resting his hands on Grantaire’s legs. There was nothing patronising about him, just an apparent desire to actually help, so, though a little begrudgingly, Grantaire did as he was asked. He expected Combeferre to pull the top off roughly, but he was surprisingly gentle, sure not to catch his nose or ears, his hands skimming his sides and arms as he took the top off. 

“Keep them up, here.” Combeferre quickly pulled the clean top on, tugging it down over him as Grantaire lowered his arms and ensuring it wasn’t bunched up or twisted. While he felt a little pathetic, Grantaire also felt oddly warm and cared for. Combeferre tenderly brushed displaced hair back from Grantaire’s face, and he pressed his cheek into the palm of his hand. His eyes closed, and he didn’t see the adoring smile on Combeferre’s face.

“Gonna help with my trousers as well?” he attempted to joke, though he felt too run-down to really put any energy into it. Still, he shot him a wry smile. To his surprise, Combeferre frowned and nodded.

“You couldn’t get your top off, you can’t bend over to put the new bottoms on. Of course I’m going to help,” he stated, as though the matter had been settled long ago and Grantaire was asking a ridiculous question.

“Oh. You don’t- I can do it myself,” he whined quietly, hands going to unbutton his trousers. Combeferre must have sensed the little hostility in his words, because he didn’t move in to help as he had last time.

Grantaire struggled, managing to get the trousers down to his thighs. He couldn’t get them further without standing or twisting, and everything just hurt too much to do it himself. With a final groan, he flopped back against the sofa, waving a hand at Combeferre.

“Fine. Knock yourself out.” Combeferre huffed another laugh. Grantaire knew he was being petulant and stubborn, but really, he wasn’t used to being taken care of, and he didn’t know how to accept what Combeferre was offering him. He didn’t want to feel a burden, and he hated feeling useless. No one had ever wanted to help him while he was ill before, certainly not his parents, and once he’d moved out, he’d grown used to stewing in his own filth and starving until he felt better again.

Still, Combeferre had his trousers off quicker than Grantaire would have been able to himself, and he guided his feet into the pyjama bottoms, carefully pulling them up his legs. The time felt perfect for a dirty joke, but he couldn’t find one through the fog in his head.

“Stand up, I can’t get them on otherwise.” Grantaire obeyed, struggling to push himself to his feet and having to grab Combeferre’s shoulders to keep his balance as his head rushed. Combeferre’s fingers skimmed his skin as he pulled the bottoms up over his hips, and Grantaire couldn’t help but giggle quietly.

“So I have to get ill for you to get on your knees, huh?” He laughed, finally finding a suitable comment. The laugh, however, was overtaken by a sudden bout of coughing. He felt weak, and Combeferre’s hands on his hips moved him back onto the sofa before he could fall over.

Grantaire sat back, pulling his knees up, still trying to cough, but his chest felt tight, and coughing did absolutely nothing to help clear that feeling.

“Try not to overexcite yourself,” Combeferre chastised, though there was mirth in his voice, and Grantaire looked up in time to see him grinning. “Stay there, I’ll get you a blanket.”

“I don’t need a- for god’s sake.” Combeferre was gone before he could even finish what he was saying, and he simply pouted indignantly to himself for a moment before trying to get the television remote from the armchair three feet away. It was just out of reach, and he couldn’t bear even the thought of standing back up to try and get it.

“Here. What are you doing?” Combeferre asked as he returned, unfolding the heavy afgan blanket and laying it over him. Grantaire slumped back into the sofa.

“It’s too quiet, I wanted the telly on,” he mumbled as Combeferre tucked the blanket around his sides. “Wait.” He stopped Combeferre before he completely engulfed Grantaire in the blanket. “Com’ere.”

Combeferre was warm, and he knew that him sat beside him would be like sitting beside a heater. It was a far nicer prospect than going to find a hot water bottle.

“And I want the remote.”

“All you have to do is ask,” Combeferre assured him, and though he could be annoyed with Grantaire’s stubbornness by now, he didn’t sound it. The man was eternally patient. It was one of the things Grantaire was realising he loved about him.

The remote was pressed into his hand, and Combeferre sat close beside him. Just like he’d thought, he was warm, and Grantaire instantly curled towards him, his knees falling sideways into Combeferre’s lap. Combeferre’s arm lay over his shoulder, holding him against him, and Grantaire rested his head against his shoulder.

Even though he knew he hadn’t been at work today, Combeferre still smelt oddly musty, like the storeroom of a museum. It shouldn’t be a pleasant smell at all, but Grantaire associated it so much with Combeferre and with time spent with him that it had become pleasant. He turned his nose against him and breathed him in, before he lost the ability to smell altogether - fuck colds.

Combeferre eventually took the remote, which had stayed in Grantaire’s loose grasp as he entirely forgot about it. Damn Combeferre’s cuddles. He flicked through a few channels before finding something about house renovations. When Grantaire couldn’t sleep, he’d often put on something similar, and doze in front of it until he drifted off or until the sun rose, whichever came first. He quite enjoyed them, and so he didn’t mind.

“I made you tea,” Combeferre said, leaning over him and picking up the mug that he’d set on the floor earlier. “For when you got in. Now you definitely need it. Here.” He held the mug out handle first - considerate - and Grantaire took it. Though it was only a mug with tea in, it felt incredibly heavy.

“Fuck, I haven’t got it, wait,” he told him, not wanting to spill hot tea over the both of them. Combeferre’s hold hadn’t faltered, though, still holding tightly, and they lowered it until it could rest against Grantaire’s thighs.

“Okay?” he checked, and Grantaire nodded. Combeferre let go, and let his hand, now warmed by the mug, rest on his thigh, his arms practically encircling him. The combination of the warm touch and the hot mug and the scent of tea were already working together to make him feel a little better, if he were honest with himself, and he closed his eyes, resting against him for a few moments more.

“Can I have some medicine?” he asked after a few more minutes of staring at the househunters checking out a house near Bordeaux. Combeferre shook his head. “What? Why?” There was a definite whine in his voice that time, tipping his head back to give Combeferre his best pout.

“It will prolong your illness. Suppressing the symptoms will allow the virus to remain in the system for longer.”

“There’s no proof for that.”

“You have nowhere to be this weekend, and neither do I. You can either take the medicine and feel mildly bad all weekend, or not, and we can do something that doesn’t involve watching television on your sofa on Sunday, when you’re feeling better. Which would you prefer?”

Grantaire didn’t want to acknowledge that what Combeferre had said made sense, but he didn’t really want to waste the whole weekend. “You inviting yourself to stay? I won’t be much fun,” he added, with a lift of his eyebrow that definitely implied he meant fun in bed. Combeferre snorted, shaking his head.

“It might surprise you to know that I want to spend time with you that doesn’t only involve being naked. While I do enjoy that aspect of our relationship, I also like you with your clothes on. I like being around you.” It was Combeferre’s turn to raise an eyebrow as Grantaire felt himself blush.

“Right… Okay…” Grantaire took a sip of tea in lieu of replying. Their relationship was still pretty new, and the sex was incredible and exciting and regular, but Grantaire had started thinking about more than just that - about how easy it was to be around him, how he wanted to do dumb things like go to fairs or the beach or the theatre, how mornings spent in bed just lying there were just as good as the nights before. He knew he wanted a serious relationship with Combeferre, but he hadn’t mentioned it. Hearing Combeferre even alluding to it, though, made his insides flutter with excitement.

And it was amazing tea, he had to admit, made better to his taste than he ever seemed to manage himself. “I’ll make you ill,” he protested further, though as Combeferre continued to hold him, he wasn’t sure why he was protesting any more.

“I can go still, if you’d prefer me to.” Too quickly, Grantaire shook his head, but he ignored the fact that it hurt.

“If you keep making tea like this, you can stay.” Combeferre rubbed his hand against Grantaire’s thigh and smiled.

“I’ll do my best.”

One househunting programme turned into another, and another, before Combeferre finally snapped. Grantaire hadn’t moved in a while, and he whined as Combeferre stirred beneath him.

“God, I can’t watch another one of these. I’m putting a film on. Do you have any preferences?” he asked as he tried to stand again. 

“Stay.”

“I’ll be right back, you big idiot. I just have to find something better to watch.” Grantaire looked up at Combeferre. The expression on his face was one of endearment, like he found Grantaire’s protests adorable, instead of childish and irritating, and Grantaire huffed as he sat up.

“Pick whatever you like,” he mumbled. Eyes slid shut as he listened to Combeferre rooting through his cupboards, curled sideways against the back of the sofa. Pulling the blanket up to his ears, he tried to ignore the burning sensation behind his eyes and the ache in his limbs.

“Come on you, move forwards,” said Combeferre as the television went quiet, then started showing trailers. Grantaire didn’t pay attention, and started to shift backwards into the corner of the sofa. A hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Forwards. Let me there.”

Confused, Grantaire hefted himself forwards, his movements uncoordinated and heavy, until he was in the centre of the sofa, shivering and out of breath even though he’d only moved a foot. Combeferre slipped in behind him, laying back into the corner, his legs between Grantaire and the edge of the sofa, and he held his arms out to him.

“Lay back down you fool. I thought this might be comfortable as well,” Combeferre said patiently, and Grantaire finally got it. He lay on his side between Combeferre and the sofa, his arm wrapping around his waist, head coming to rest on Combeferre’s chest. Combeferre arranged the blanket back around Grantaire’s shoulders, so it covered him completely, before one hand curled around Grantaire’s arm, the other came to rest on the back of Grantaire’s neck. He knew his skin was clammy and tacky, and he cringed inwardly, but Combeferre either didn’t mind, or pretended he didn’t mind, and Grantaire loved him a little more for it, the warm touch soothing.

“Toy Story? Really?” he asked, shifting until he found the right angle.

“I used to watch it all the time when I was sick as a child,” Combeferre replied, a hand moving into Grantaire’s hair. A shiver went down his spine, but this one was warm and contented, instead of cold and sickening.

“I haven’t watched it in years,” he replied after a moment, feeling a little bad for joking about it after that.

“Neither have I. I don’t own a copy. I’m surprised you do, if you don’t watch it.”

Grantaire shrugged. “I just haven’t fancied it.”

“Do you want something different? I can-”

“No,” Grantaire insisted, his arm tightening around his waist, stopping him from moving again. He felt, rather than heard, Combeferre laugh, and he relaxed again when he was sure he wasn’t going to move.

A few minutes into the film, the hand in his hair began idly stroking over his scalp. It felt nothing short of heavenly. Fingers moved his hair away from his face, which somehow made him feel as though he had more room to breathe, and the repetitive motion soon had more of his attention than the film.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he finally acquiesced a while later, somewhere around halfway through the film.

“I thought you were asleep,” Combeferre replied, with more than a touch of fondness. “I’m glad you let me stay.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just not used to… Y’know.”

“I do. It’s alright. Whatever you need.” His words seemed loaded with more than just offering tea and blankets, and the implications settled around him, much like another blanket. He felt cared for, and like he could allow himself to believe he would be cared for for a long time, and it made his heart swell. For a moment, he could almost forget he was ill.

“Can I have more tea?”

“I just got comfortable, you bastard,” Combeferre said, his turn to whine, but Grantaire could tell he wasn’t being serious. 

“You can come straight back. For a pointy, skinny whippet of a man, you’re surprisingly comfortable.” Grantaire sat up and smiled sweetly at him. Combeferre leaned in for a soft kiss, one hand on his cheek, before standing and collecting their mugs.

“Now you’ll definitely get ill. Don’t kiss someone with a cold.”

“It’ll be worth it,” Combeferre said, shooting a look over his shoulder, and Grantaire felt a twitch of arousal run through him, despite feeling like utter shite. “You can look after me.”

“You can fuck off,” Grantaire retorted. Combeferre just laughed.

“Same as last time?”

“You’re amazing.”

“So’re you,” Combeferre replied quietly, though Grantaire didn’t hear him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thankyou for reading!
> 
> My [tumblr](http://switchferre.tumblr.com)


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